


And so we rise, and so we fall

by secret_stories



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 01:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_stories/pseuds/secret_stories
Summary: Arya tracks down the red woman and comes to cross another name off her list.  She finds more than she was expecting.Set after the season finale, gendry has been legitimised and made Lord of storms end, arya  has not yet made it to winterfell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I haven't written anything for a long time and never for this fandom but I'm totally in love with arya and gendry so this is just a little thing.
> 
> I've done it as a one shot but have actually written the bones for quite a bit more but didn't want to put too much pressure on myself! 
> 
> I wrote it on my phone in the middle of the night so apologies for bad grammar and 0 editing.

And there she was. As clear as day, the girl he thought long dead, burned into his retinas like some wild thing from a story, a song, a legend. The room stank of blood, wind whipping through the torn tapestry at the window. He could just hear the sea. Her hands were red, red on her chest, seeping into her worn men’s tunic, her cheek, dripping from her sword, down to the cold stones. The moment yawned out into the silent seconds. Three men dead around her, three of his men. His eyes danced across the scene taking in the horror, the spectacle, the ghost before him. A throat slashed open there, an arm, a face. They had been cut to ribbons. Her hair was longer now, the plait binding it coming loose, it looked greasy and unkempt, like all those years ago. Her face was harder though, slimmed down and planed by more than age. Eyes dark with some deep anger and satisfaction, burning into the prize at her feet. 

Gendry knew the red woman’s true form but had never seen it. She looked like a pile of bones there, cowering beneath such powerful strength, lost in the swathes of the red cloak. Her hair wasn’t even red, except for the blood that matted it. There, the necklace, gem glowing faintly, a few feet away, looked to have been torn off and thrown. The sword was dangerously close to her withered neck now. Seeing her like this sickened him, and a part of him wanted to let it happen, let the wild girl take her prize. The guards behind him shuffled slightly, a clink of metal, the sound broke the still and her dark fierce eyes flicked to him. 

‘Arry?’ His voice felt small in his throat as he moved into the stone room, high above the sea. She was breathing deeply as she took him in. Eyes of a stranger, locking with his and moving down to his war hammer, clutched down at his side. ‘Arya.’ He repeated her name more firmly, slowly setting the hammer down, careful to avoid the nearest bloody body. 

Something seemed to deflate a little inside her then, the sword didn’t move from that withered thing’s throat but her eyes flickered, the darkness ebbing away just a fraction. When she spoke it was cracked and quiet. He could still hear the sea, crashing against the rocks, the tapestry flapped and snapped in the growing wind. ‘Gendry?’

He moved a little further into the chamber, the fire was dying, smoke swirling from burnt out logs. Still, the smell of death pervaded all. ‘Arya, what are you doing?’ She frowned deeply at this, those dark brows coming together as her hand, sticky with drying blood tightened on the sword. Her eyes flicked back down to the shaking woman. ‘ The many faced God has been promised a name. He must have it.’ This voice fitted more with his memory of her, determined and strong, bitter but there was no childish laughter there.

He turned to his guards, silent behind him, the look of fear and confusion prevalent on their faces. Gently, he signaled for them to go And hesitantly, slowly, they retreated down the turret stairs. 

When he turned back, the room was still, deathly quiet. Her eyes were back on him, frowning once more. He could almost laugh at the absurdity of the situation were it not so dire. He brought his hands up in front of him, ‘ I don’t know what that means arry. I don’t understand, but we need her. I know that, we need her alive. Please arya.’ He moved slowly closer as he spoke, boots crunching on broken pottery, slightly sticky in blood. He could see her freckles now, close enough to see a healing cut on her cheek, a blade of grass caught in her hair. Those dark stormy eyes filled with confusion, uncertainty and they moved about his face, taking in all the changes he knew she would see there. It had been a long time. ‘She saved Jon, arry, she saved your brother. Up there on the wall, he died. She did some of her witch magic and she brought him back. He’s alive because of her.’ Her eyes raked over him and flicked back down to what was left of the red woman. He thought he saw her arm faulter slightly. ‘She’s on our side’. it felt like pleading now and he hated that but what choice did he have? They needed that witch. Arya turned sharply back to him, a bite in her voice, ‘and which side is that?’ Gendry frowned at that, moving a further step closer and slowly bringing a hand up towards her. ‘The side off the living.’ 

Her chest was heaving as she took in his words, looking from him to the floor. Slowly, slowly, his hand came to rest on her arm, sliding down towards her wrist. She felt cold, smelt of outside, frost and leaves. ‘Please drop the sword arya.’ She didn’t look at him but he felt her shudder a little, her voice wavering as she spoke ‘you cannot drop what is part of your arm.’ She glanced up at him and didn’t move away as his hand slid further down, feeling the stickiness of blood on the bare skin of her fore arm, twisting softly into her clenched palm. Her eyes clenched shut as she breathed deeply. He could make out a bruise on the side of her neck, just fading to purple. The wind plucked at her hair. His other hand came up to brush against her dirty cheek and she leaned slightly into his soft touch. He squeezed her free hand. ‘What happened to you arya?’ she opened her eyes quickly, the sudden change in her expression startling him, she looked fierce, steely, strange. Pulling her hand from his she turned and spat at the red woman before spinning away and striding purposefully to the window, tucking her sword into her belt.

Before he could say or do anything she had torn down what remained of the tapestry, unleashing the brewing storm into the small room, finally driving the smell of blood away. 

And there she was, perched on the ledge, hair whipping about that face so familiar and yet so alien to him. She was something from a story, a song his mother would sing to him. The sea crashed against the rocks, he could smell the salt, the coming rain in the air, and nothing else. In the distance, a wolf howled. She almost smiled at him, moving slightly into the wind. ‘Wait!’ She half turned back to him. ‘Arya, don’t go, not yet. It’s been so long, there’s so much...’ he trailed off, feeling desperate, couldn't let this be goodbye again, however the hell she was planning on leaving through the window. He reached out a hand towards her with no idea if she would take it or not. Arya looked at him, down at his hand and then her grey eyes turned back again to the red lady. Gendry saw the moment she made her decision. Her small hand felt cool in his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the hell, here's a bit more. I can't sleep anyway.

The room was rich around her, clearly the war hadn’t touched the guest chambers of the mighty Storm’s End. Arya trailed her fingers along the table, simple fare for difficult times, still, the meat looked fresh and smelled tempting. A bath steamed in the middle of the smoky room, the wood on the fire sea bleached. The flames flickered blue. She was being treated as an honoured guest, but she could not miss the click of a lock in the heavy door. An honoured guest who was not allowed to leave. She had killed three men she supposed. It hadn’t meant to be like that, it went against all her training, quiet, calm, not raging and bloody like the wolf she had become of late. Still, plans change, things go wrong and she had had to adapt. She was nothing if not adaptable. Arya breathed deeply and brought her hands up to tease the hair from the matted plait. A blade of grass floated down to the floor. She glanced at it there by her boots, a tiny piece of the forest here amongst the finery. Her clothes came next, stiff and worn, bloody and torn. She couldn’t remember the last time she had removed them entirely, not since she’d discarded that last face, at least, back at the Twins. 

Her bindings were tight across her chest, crusty, they fell away like a skin. Beneath, her fingers danced idly across bruises and scratches, the skin paler where it had lain hidden. She would need new ones, although it was near impossible to pass for a boy these days. She needed a new face.

The bath almost stung, the warmth spreading up tired legs as she lowered herself down. The fire popped and cracked. Night would be falling. She couldn’t see the sky. Heavy tapestries held out the cold at the windows, but she could feel it, the onset of darkness. The candles and lamps kept it at bay here in the castle but she could feel it deep inside her. Out there, in the forest, it would be creeping up, waking the wolves. She closed her eyes and took a breath before sliding fully into the water. It was a good deep bath and as her nose and eyes submerged, she felt a calm stillness like she hadn’t felt for a long time. How many servants had it taken to fill this, she wondered idly, how many steps had they had to carry it? 

She came up out the water slowly, hands coming up to smooth the wet hair back, it was getting so long. Dirt and blood swirled on the surface of the water. She leaned back and allowed her eyes to move around the room. Stags everywhere. This was Baratheon country, but the Baratheons were all dead. Were. She breathed out and studied a large tapestry over the window, it moved gently against the wind outside, a tiny escaped breeze flickering the nearest candle, not enough to put it out. The stag was golden, worked over a deep yellow backdrop, green and browns dancing in trees and leaves, vines and flowers. It was beautifully embroidered. But that was something Sansa would say. Aryra rolled around the new situation in her mind, the new information. ‘Gendry Baratheon’. It came out as a whisper, his name still fresh on her tongue, the new title didn’t fit. She couldn’t make it fit. 

After some time, a maid brought fresh clothes. The girl didn’t look at her, only nodded and shuffled in. She looked younger than Arya and nervous. She studied her shoes before turning away, Arya’s gaze heavy on her back as she stood by the door. ‘I’m to help you dress m’lady.’ 

Of course it was a dress. Of course. What else should she have expected, would have laughed if she hadn’t forgotten how. The fabric was soft, a deep blue, thick for the winter. Something her mother would have worn, back at Winterfell, all those years ago. The maid was brushing out her hair, still carefully not making eye contact, when Arya next spoke. The candles burned lower in their brackets. The fire would need more wood soon. ‘Is he a good Lord?’ She asked quietly, her dark eyes studying the maid’s gentle face in the looking glass. She was prettier than her, Arya thought, softer, innocent in distant ways Arya knew she had been once. It took a little while for her to answer, delicate hands moving quietly through her dark hair. She glanced up and found Arya staring at her, glanced quickly down again. ‘Yes, M’lady. He’s a very good lord. We were all happy to have a Baratheon back in the Storm Lands.’ She spoke quietly, stilted and hesitant but Arya could hear no lie. Soon, the maid banked the fire and left. The room was quiet, it would be full dark outside by now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry visits Arya in her chambers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, I was debating on whether or not to write any more but here we go! It's a longer chapter but not a lot actually happens I'm afraid!

It took him a moment to enter, the door dark and forbidding in front of him. Since he had led her to this chamber, felt her pull roughly away from him and storm into the darkened room, he had been brooding. His chambers gradually darkening as he remembered the girl he had lost. That fierce infuriating girl. All these years, too much had happened. Oceans between them, he barely recognised that woman, nor the danger he felt in her eyes. Gendry nodded to the wary guards, closed his eyes and took a breath before placing his hands on the wood, cool and rough. The door opened smoothly, he knew she would have heard the key turning. He hated to do it, lock her up like a prisoner, but with what she had done, appearing in the castle like a ghost, slaughtering his men like nothing. How had she got in, how had she planned to leave? Could a locked door even hold her? A moment of panic flitted through him, would she even still be here, or had she already disappeared, out into the forest that she smelt of so deeply. 

The air was heavy inside. He stepped slowly over the threshold, the fragrance of the bath lingering, mixing with the smoky fire and the sea. The smell of the sea was always here, at this castle they told him was his. There, in front of that large fire place she sat, lightly silhouetted by the flickering flames, blue and orange. Her back was turned slightly towards him as she worked in the high backed chair. Loose hair, so long, he thought, fell with a very slight wave to it, her face hidden in the shadow as her arm moved smoothly across the blade across her thighs, that same blade. She sharpened it slowly, methodically. 

He swallowed deeply before approaching, the deep blue of her dress stark against the pale skin at her wrist. Her arm stilled, face turning slightly towards him but not looking up, just a moment, he caught sight of eyes cast down, lashes almost on cheeks, before she went back to her steady strokes. Gendry watched her a moment longer, the wind was picking up outside, it would be another cold night. He cleared his throat, ‘Arya’. It was a small sound, almost a pleading. He sounded so weak, how did she still hold so much power over him? The fire popped and she paused again, not looking around at all this time, only down at her blade, those slight hands gripping the stone against the steel. The wind picked up a stray strand of hair and it fluttered slightly, dancing over her shoulder. Gendry was so utterly lost, he had thought never to see her again, and now, here, in his castle, a woman grown and a stranger to him. ‘Is that really the same sword you lost?’ His voice was quiet as he eyed Needle there in her arms. She had mourned its loss. He remembered. ‘How did you get it back?’ Still she said nothing, a statue in front of the fire, that slight breeze twisting the candles, shadowing what little he could see of her. It was infuriating, enthralling, something out of a dream. Slowly, cautiously, he moved closer, around the chair in which she was sitting, his back to the fire. Her face was clean now, the cuts and bruises more obvious against her white skin. Still she did not look up, only continued to sharpen that damned sword. Feeling the irritation build, he took a step closer. The rushes were thick on the floor, fresh and clean. His foot rustled against them. Before he could move any more, she spoke. It was deep, low, dangerous. Gendry froze, unable to match this voice to the girl he had lost. ‘A lot of things have happened since we last met.’ Hand still on the stone, she paused her sharpening and those dark eyes flicked up to meet his at last, a strange light inside. ‘My Lord.’ 

The new Lord held her eyes a moment, taking in the shape, the colour, the distant familiarity, the hurt and accusation. He let his flick down to the floor, the shadows were playing around his boots. Fine boots. Gendry coloured a little, ‘I know, who would have guessed? Me, a Baratheon.’ He kicked the rushes lightly, feeling like a child. His eyes glanced up to her again, grey on blue, she was still staring, steady and unyielding. ‘Turns out, that’s why they all wanted me back then.’ It came out quickly, a blur. ‘And now they’ve made me a true Baratheon, seems I’m the last one.’ He shrugged, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides before one moved up to run a finger over the broach at his chest. The crowned stag. He didn’t feel like a stag. Gendry sighed and let his hand drop again, closing his eyes briefly. The fire crackled. In front of him, that strange girl, woman, he reminded himself, dropped her eyes and carefully moved the sword onto the table beside her. Slowly, she stood up, the dress rustling lightly. She was still so small, but lithe, her curves only slight in the simple feminine dress. She eyed the broach at his chest, fingers twitching as if she yearned to touch. He found himself drinking it all in, the way her hair fell over one shoulder, the slight frown to her brows, the pale skin at her chest. She breathed softly and looked up at him, she was so close, he could smell the floral scent of her hair, the smell of the forest on her skin. Her voice was calm and quiet, ‘I can see it in you now. I knew them, that fat King and his brother Renly. It’s him you favour. Renly. You have his look.’ She turned her head to the side slightly as she took in his face. Seeing it in a different light. He had heard it before, many times. He was young Robert come again. He huffed slightly, it was different coming from her. To her, he was meant to just be Gendry, she was meant to be just Arry. ‘So I’ve been told’, he brought a hand up and rubbed it over his face. He was so tired. Had it really only been a few hours past that she had roared back into the present? Arya’s gaze dropped and she moved to turn away, the shadows on her face flickering. For just a moment, she could have still been his soft faced friend. ‘I’m sorry Arya’. He choked, fingers coming up to lightly touch her arm as she turned. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you. She didn’t look back, but didn’t move any further. Her dress was soft beneath his fingers and he felt his thumb move slightly, up and down. Those grey eyes closed as she took a breath, opened again, still not looking at him. ‘A lot has happened since then, My Lord.’ Each time she used the title was like a small blow. A punishment from the past. ‘What Arya, what happened to you? Where have you been all the time?’ His voice became more rushed, raised. He wanted to shake her, but settled for squeezing his fingers slightly, the arm under them tensing. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, deep brows furrowing, seeming to gather herself before turning sharply towards him once more. The depth of her eyes once they had flicked up to his took him aback. His hands dropped as she stared at him, something breaking there, behind the grey, behind the strength. The same glimmer he saw back in the tower room, when she first recognised him. ‘I never thought I’d see you again.’ It was a whimper, her soft voice more real than anything he’d seen so far. It sounded like that little girl, lost in the forest with him all those years ago. ‘It’s been so long, Gendry, and you’re a Lord now.’ Her eyes flicked down to the stag at his breast once more, it was glimmering in the fire light. She closed them again, softly, gently, he thought she might be crying, but no tears fell. So quiet, he could barely make out the words, she spoke again ‘I really thought she’d killed you.’

The sadness on her face would have been enough to break him. This girl, this fierce brave woman. Who was he to her, to cause such anguish? Gently, he brought his hand up to her cheek, the backs of his fingers trailing along the soft skin so lightly, he could barely feel it. His rough hand lingererd there a moment before slowly turning and cupping her cheek. He could feel the delicate bone under his fingers, the healing cut under his palm, the silky hair tickling his arm. She shuddered lightly, eyes still closed and leant lightly into his touch. When he spoke, she looked up at him, eyes full of unshed tears, lids flickering. ‘Everyone thought you were gone Arya, the lost Stark daughter. I couldn’t believe it, you were so strong, with that bloody sword.’ His thumb trailed along her cheek bone as he spoke more softly, ‘I never would have gotten anywhere without you.’ She huffed out a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes and brought a hand up to cover his hand, looking sadly up at him. Gently, she pulled his hand down from her face and held it lightly in hers, the fingers barely gripping each other. The wind snapped and wailed, it was beginning to rain, he could hear it in the chimney, at the window. She dropped his hand entirely, ‘What have you done with the red woman?’ Gendry breathed slowly, his fingers missing her warmth. ‘She is with us Milady. She is helping us. We need her now more than ever. Things have changed in Westeros Arya.’ Gendry turned and gripped the back of a chair in front of the fire, staring into the flames, they were dancing wildly in the wind. He could sense her behind him still, waiting, listening. ‘The Wall is weak, barely manned, even with the Wildlings. Winterfell has only just been reclaimed by your family. The others are coming and our defences will fall like they are nothing.’ His fingers crushed against the rich fabric of the chair as his anger rose, voice rising, he turned sharply to her. ‘These petty games between Lords and Ladies, they mean nothing now.’ His chest heaved as he looked at her, un moving, her eyes like stone once again. ‘It’s us and them now, the living and the dead. I need you to stand with me,’ He felt his voice faltering a little ‘I need you at my side.’ His arm raised up in front of him, as if reaching for her, before he let it drop again. Arya looked at him for a moment before reaching up and tucking the loose hair behind her ear. She moved back to her chair and picked up her precious needle once again. Gendry breathed deeply across from her as she slowly retrieved the stone and once again began her steady sharpening strokes. Gendry, incredulous, just stared. ‘Arya.’ Only the wind and sea answered, howling across the cliffs, crashing against rock and sand. He watched her a moment longer, fingers itching to grab her, to rouse that girl from this bizarre stupor. As the air left his chest, he turned and walked slowly away. He heard the guards clicking the lock behind him as he marched down the dark corridor, back to his chambers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry wakes to find a visitor in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, I am not good at writing regularly!
> 
> I'm trying hard to get the timings right. As far as I can work out for the TV show i'm basing it on this timeline.
> 
> 298 - Arya and Gendry leave Kings Landing  
> 299-300 - Gendry is taken by Melisandre and leaves in his boat   
> 301 - Arya Leaves Westeros  
> 303 - Arya arrives back in Westeros
> 
> There is 5 years age difference between them, when they met, Arya was 11 and Gendry was 16. Now Arya is 17 and Gendry is 22.
> 
> I think that's right!

The storm heaved against the rocks. Storm’s bloody End. The waves leaping and crashing, they raged at the walls, the wind screaming at smooth rock, rain hammering, finding no purchase, no way into the fortress. Impenetrable, so the tales said, of those Storm Lords long ago. His ancestors. It still took his breath away. They built these walls, this castle on the rocks, strong enough to hold against the tyrant that was the sea. Strong enough to hold against any enemy. And yet. And yet she had slipped in like it was nothing. And yet in daylight, she had made her way into the place famed for its strength, for its dense dark fury. Ours is the bloody Fury. It was certainly a big storm, they had been getting gradually worse, as the promised Winter whispered down further South. The days were shorter, nights longer, darker somehow. And now, the biggest storm he had experienced in his short time at the home of his ancestors had blown in with it the biggest enigma. His chamber was richer than anywhere he had ever laid his head. The Lord of the castle. There was a merry fire flickering away in the enormous fire place where he sat in a deep soft chair, strong hands gripping the arms. Tapestries and hangings adorned the walls, candles and lamps lit tables and soft furnishings. The ceiling was all in shadow, harsh lines of black fell across the floor where the light was blocked. Gendry sat before the fire and brooded. Arya, Arya, Arya, Arry, Milady, Weasel, Ghost of Harrenhall. All her names a litany in his head. How many more had she acquired in her absence? It had been four long years at least, and so much had changed. He could barely remember those days, trudging along in the forest, trudging along beside her. Gendry rubbed his eyes deeply and sighed. What was he to do? The wind howled and the fire spat in protest. A servant had brought food earlier, it was late now, he knew. Was she sleeping? He doubted it. Couldn’t imagine those grey eyes allowing even a moment of vulnerability. Time was, she could only sleep huddled into his back, chasing away the cold nights with his warmth seeping through thin grubby fabric. He shook his head and huffed, it was a different life. The food was cold now and unappetising. He couldn’t eat anyway. Couldn’t do anything but think on her. Damn her. He cursed and stood, pacing the length of the room, the candles whipping and flickering as he passed. 

The war was coming. There was nothing to stop it. Jon Snow and Queen Danaerys were counting on him to restore the Storm Lands, rally the area so devoid of leadership. They had been left to the greed and fickle power of raiders and thieves. No order, barely any preparation for the long winter ahead. None for the war that hung heavily over them, over the whole of Westeros. Only the strength of Storms End had protected it from those without. Left Lordless and alone, only the steward and servants had stayed, keeping it running, barely scraping by. They had practically thrown themselves at his feet when they had arrived to claim it. Those few short months ago. He had to bring power back from this once strong land. The Baratheon face held that strength, he had been told. He knew though, this cursed face, the face of his worthless father, his cruel uncle, and the last lord, that ill fated Baratheon who he favoured so strongly. Jon Snow knew the Storm Lands would follow that face, follow their Storm Lord, and so he had come. Come at their behest, to do what he could, to strengthen the land, the people, and in turn, bring that strength to support the realm, defend them from what was coming. He moved to the fire, leant against the warmed stone, face half in shadow, and watched it dance and crack. Those flames, flames of that witch. Curse her. He had so much to do, so much to think about and no time. And yet his mind could think of nothing but those grey eyes, flickering and fierce, cold and empty, full and sad. Why could he think of nothing but her? Her hair had been so soft on his arm, her cheek cool and smooth on his palm. Who even was she now? This woman, this stranger? Gendry moved to his bed, and lay back against the soft fabrics. He closed his eyes and thought of the girl he had known. That fierce and strong girl. So protective of her pack, so determined and wilful. He thought of her face as the wagon bore him away from her, the face that had haunted him in the dungeons of Dragon Stone. He had barely admitted to himself what she had meant to him then, she was a child, just barely becoming a woman. Not so now, whoever she had become, that Arya was a woman. She must be seven and ten by now, at least. 

Her voice whispered in his ear of how he had chosen to leave her, her face accused him, the storm rose and fell, screeched and whimpered. It whipped about her hair and those grey eyes bore into him. He ran through the green forests, water dripping off the leaves. He could hear a river gushing somewhere through the trees. He tramped through the undergrowth, close behind her, following that boy who was really a girl with shorn hair, following her anywhere. To the end of all things. 

When he woke, the room was still dark. The hour of the wolf. The fire burnt low, only embers, the candles extinguished. The servants must have seen to them while he dreamed. Shadows filled the room. He could still hear the sea, always. The waves forever crashing but without their earlier fervour. The storm had blown itself out at last. As his eyes made sense of the shapes around him, he noticed a strange light filtering through the shadows. Moving slowly, gently, he sat up, the furs falling down to his waist. He shivered, prickles moving over his bare chest. A gentle breeze brushed over his hair, fingers of it tickling across his scalp. He was cold. There, by the window that looked out over the cliffs, across the sea, the heavy curtain had been drawn open slightly. A narrow sliver of the night’s sky twinkled into the room, bringing with it that frosty sea air. His breath puffed out lightly in front of him as his eyes moved slowly around the shadows. The room that was only just becoming familiar to him. As he shifted faintly, he saw her there, she moved slightly, her silhouette across the night sky. Her hand gently gripped the stone ledge, her back to him, looking out across the sea. Gendry breathed deeply and shivered again. Her hair was braided once more, but loosely, he could see the moonlight shining sweetly on the strands of hair falling around her shoulders, that salty wind moving it lightly. She was a statue once more. Had her aunt ever stood in this room? Looked out over those cliffs, across that sea? Gendry did not speak, barely breathed, but slowly moved himself out from under the furs. The gentle rustle of fabric was enough, she had probably known the moment he’d awoken, she turned then, turned to face him there as he stood by the bed, clad only in his small clothes. 

Although those grey eyes held his, he saw them flick lightly across his torso, down and up. He remembered them making that same journey before, across his soot stained skin. He shivered again, from more than cold. The waves crashed on the rock below, forever trying to gain entrance. Arya’s face was emotionless, fixed, as they stared at each other across the shadows. The sky was clear behind her, he could see the stars, the bright moon, the light shining on the blade at her side. Her breath puffed in front of her like his, yet she did not shiver. Slowly, she moved to the chair in front of the cold fire, and lowered herself, still eyeing him. So quiet, so smooth. How did she move like that? So silently, with a grace and care so natural and so disturbing that it brought to mind a feline, one that has been burned too often at the hands of men. She had certainly shown she had claws. Gendry eyed the needle across her thighs, ever present. Damn that blade, curse it and praise it for all it’d done. What more had it done? Those years apart, what more blood had it spilled in her learned hands? She still wore the blue dress. There was something very regal about her, how had he ever thought she was anything other than a lady. Arya breathed slowly, patiently, her eyes not leaving him. The seat across from her empty, inviting. Gendry breathed deeply through his nose, puffed his chest and stepped forward, to join her there by the dying fire. Her grey eyes followed him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya confronts Gendry about their parting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. I am no good at regular updates so I'm sorry for that! Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> This is actually not the conversation I intended them to have but Arya got really angry and it just got away from me a bit. Sorry!
> 
> Never proofed, never re read. Sorry about that too.

The only sound was the distant sea, the whispering wind, the faint hiss of the fire, fighting until it’s final breath. All the elements, here. They were the earth, she supposed, two people fallen out of time, out of their lives, in this unending war. Arya certainly felt like she was carved of stone. Gendry shivered, the hair on his broad arms raising. As his wary eyes travelled up the sharp lines of her face, she breathed deeply. He seemed to be steadying himself for what was to come. As his eyes finally locked with hers, she felt herself release a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. He looked so much older, so strong, a real man grown. He had been on the cusp, if not stepping over that line when last they had met. His bare chest was still strong, but light lines were beginning to form around his brow. He had frowned a lot, she mused. We all have. There was a long moment, one that yawned out into the silence of their breaths as they took each other in. Finally, Arya let her eyes close, the rage she kept always under the surface, always just under control, seethed and roiled. Eyes still closed, her hands gripped needle more firmly. It was her strength.

 

‘I was angry at you for such a long time, Gendry.’ Aryra kept her voice calm and still. A skill she had learned long ago. As she opened her eyes, she saw how still he was, back straight, hands gripping the chair as he listened. She closed and opened her eyes once again, breathed deeply, before continuing. ‘I have hated you, Gendry, hated you for leaving.’ These words came out as more of a spit and she had to take a moment to steady those emotions before letting herself speak again. ‘You left me, before even that red bitch took you.’ The anger was beginning to make her fingers shake on the pommel of her sword. She thought she saw tears in Gendry’s eyes.

 

The shadows lay so heavily across the both of them, but Aryra couldn’t stop. He had to understand. He had to understand this. ‘Everyone else, everyone else left.’ She was just barely managing to keep the tears at bay. What would the wraith say if she could see her now? Confronting her past with a tremble in her lip. She had never been more ‘someone’ than in this moment, in this unfamiliar castle by the sea. ‘My family. My father, my mother, my brothers. My teacher, my friends.’ Her cheek definitely felt wet now. The wraith had been right. She was just a silly girl. A silly girl with ice in her heart. ‘They left because they didn’t have a fucking choice.’ Her voice wasn’t getting louder, it was getting quieter. The anger steadied her. Her knuckles must have been white on needle now. Still Gendry just stared. ‘I was a girl, I was alone. You were all I had. And you left. You. Left. Me. I had nothing. No one.’ Arya’s nostrils flared of their own volition.

 

The shadows swung around them as the wind picked at the heavy curtain. The fire had turned to ash. Only the stars lit them now, like out there, in the forest. ‘All I had, all I was, was hate, anger, revenge. These petty games are all that I have had for years. What else was there? What else was there to keep me going? After you left, I was all alone Gendry. That was your choice.’ Arya could hear Gendry’s breathing quickening. Could see the tiny hairs standing on his arms. The wet on his cheek as it reflected the moonlight. ‘And then I find you, find you after all this time. And you’re alive, you’re a fucking Lord and you are protecting a witch, the witch that took you away for good. Don’t tell me about Westeros changing Gendry, don’t tell me about the war. Don’t you think I know? Don’t you think I understand what is happening? I can’t stop. I can’t let my list go. These people, these monsters who took away the people I loved, they don’t deserve to live. Not even now. Not even through this winter.’ Arya’s breathing was ragged now. Her brow furrowed and her eyes lit with cold rage. She was never supposed to feel this way. Never supposed to be so emotional. Why did he do this to her, this stupid bull headed boy, man.

 

Gendry wasn’t looking at her any more. His head was hanging low on his chest, like he could no longer find the strength to lift it. Slowly, Arya stood and turned away from him, back towards the starry sky. After a moment, she found her voice again. ‘I was on my way home. On my way to Winterfell, when I heard rumours she was here.’ Arya closed her eyes and felt her head hang low. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘I turned around, and I came back because I couldn’t let her live. I couldn’t let her live when I knew she had killed you. I hated you, but you…’ Arya left the sentence hanging there in the quiet room. She squeezed her eyes shut against the memories of how much she had cared about that boy. How much he had meant to her.

 

She felt rather than heard the air move in the room, knew he was moving towards her through the dark. Cautious and quiet as he approached. Arya remained still, breath baited, sword hanging limp at her side. He seemed to hesitate just inches behind her before she felt his hand graze up her arm, grip near her shoulder and slowly turn her to him. Arya kept her eyes closed, listened to the sea down there on the rocks, the wind as it ran through curtains, bricks, hair, fingers. Gendry’s other hand came up to join the first. He had her by both arms now. She could feel his soft breath on her face, smell the familiar scent of his skin. Still she could not open her eyes. The darkness was like a blanket, a reassuring friend.

 

When he spoke, it was quiet, and she could still hear the tears in his voice. ‘Arya, look at me.’ How could she? How could she look into the eyes of a dead man, a man who she had trusted more than anyone. Who she had sought to avenge, despite his betrayal. She only squeezed her eyes more tightly, trying to hold the thoughts at bay. Gendry spoke again, more desperate now, ‘Please Arya, look at me.’ He sounded like he was at breaking point, she had never seen him cry, always strong and stoic, or stupid and laughing. The wind carried in the scent of the sea, and with it, a hint of trees, of calm forest and waiting wolves. His fingers were strong on her arms, his breath soft against her skin. When had someone last held her? Arya opened her eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Arya struggle to connect and it seems like too much has happened for her to ever trust him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short one i'm afraid but that's where it ended. I think, as much as he wants to say things to her, Gendry is not good with words, and definitely not good and putting things out there. I know it's frustratingly slow but I think to rush it would be a disservice to the characters. There is so much happening and they will both find it difficult to trust again. 
> 
> I also realise I am not a good writer, I have never professed to be. This is just a little piece of imagination and a nice outlet for it. I'm sorry I don't have time to edit and to be honest, I have no real desire to. I hate proofing! I hope this isn't too off putting because I do love to scribble this little story and knowing people are enjoying it along with me means more than I can say. Thanks, and enjoy!

Those grey eyes were so deep, everything she had said. All those painful words were like daggers in his heart. He had left her, but what choice had he had? How could he have lived as her servant? How could he be near her and not talk and laugh with her? Didn’t she understand? The minute he had found out who she was, she had begun to leave him. Gendry breathed deeply and looked down into her eyes, they seemed to be searching him, wet and heavy they looked for something inside him he didn’t know if he had. He could never measure up. Even now. A Lord. Gendry sniffed back the onset of more tears and gripped her arms more firmly, they felt so strong under his fingers, and yet so small. ‘I’m sorry Arya. I’m so sorry.’ Gendry tried to put everything into those simple words, the pain and anguish, the turmoil and indecision. Gods he had missed her. His friend and confidant. His fierce, clever wolf. She seemed to let out a breath of disbelief before sagging into his arms. Gendry pulled her in, against his bare chest and heard the clunk of metal as needle fell to the rushes beneath them. He felt her, small, cold hands as they came up to rest over his heart. He pulled her closer, let his arms enfold her as her head tucked underneath his chin. 

Her breath was warm against his chest, small ragged puffs of it danced across him and filled with a deep ache for the past, for the hopeful girl she had been. Gendry closed his eyes and breathed deeply, her hair was soft and smelt of the cold outdoors. Had she been outside? The thought was vague and drifted away as soon as it arrived, chased by the feel of her in his arms. Time was playing tricks again, and Gendry couldn’t say how long they stood there, with the wind drifting light dusts of ash from the cold grate and the stars shining through the open curtain. He only knew that he was no longer cold. ‘I’m sorry Arya.’ 

At his soft words, he felt her pull back, not roughly but a definite pressure against his chest as she eased her head out from under his chin. Slowly, she disengaged herself until she was standing maybe a foot from him in the dark room. It was over too quickly, that small moment of intimacy, and Gendry didn’t know if he had been forgiven, if she would ever understand what had kept him from her, why he had done what he did. Even worse, as he studied those wolf eyes across the short stretch of stone between them, he didn’t know if she would ever be able to, if everything she had done, everything she had lost and seen, would keep her all those oceans away from him forever.

Gendry lifted a hand towards her, let it drift down the soft fabric of her arm. The plait holding her hair had all but come loose now, tendrils falling around her face, so familiar and so distant. ‘Please Arya. I need you now, more than ever.’ Gendry watched as her eyes closed, watched as the breath filled her chest and slowly released. She shook her head lightly and pulled sharply away from him, leaving his hand to drop between them. Gendry was cold once again. As she looked up at him, the deep lonely eyes were those of the child he had known, who had trusted him. ‘I needed you Gendry.’ She looked at him a moment longer before turning slowly away and quietly retrieving her sword. He half expected her to move to the window and blow away like a spirit, but instead those light footfalls headed to the door. Gendry could only watch as she slipped out into the silent night of the corridor. 

Bringing a hand up to his face, Gendry squeezed his fingers against his eyes. This was too much, what was he supposed to do. Everything that had happened since leaving Kings Landing, everything he had been through, he was just a boy from Flea Bottom. Now he was expected to fight creatures from tales, lead an army, run a castle, keep a whole land of people safe and do it all with strength and courage. And yet, and yet. All of that seemed like nothing, inconsequential. He could do it all, had fallen into his role, accepted every challenge, all the advice, risen to his Lordship. But this, Arya, this was too much. How could he show her, help her, keep her? Gendry moved back to his vacated chair, there in front of the fire. His eyes found the empty space in front of him, where she had sat just minutes ago. The dark cold room swayed around him and Gendry leaned back, closed his eyes, listened to the sea. Tomorrow they were retaking a smaller castle, taken from his banner men by rogues, it was meant to be an easy fight but unpredictable obstacles always arose. Would she be back in her room now? Was she thinking about him? If he had known, way back then, if he had known who he was, would he have allowed himself to keep her? Thoughts and memories of cold nights and rainy days filled his head as the sea sang him off to sleep, there in that cold dark chair. Alone again.

When his manservant woke him, bright, sharp dawn filling the room, Gendry was cold and sore. His head was pounding and memories from the night before seemed more dream than reality. Or a nightmare. The ache in his chest and the regret seeping through his tired limbs certainly felt nightmarish. But the feeling of her in his arms. Arya, the wolf girl, his wolf girl. Soft and warm, safe and close against his chest. It had been no nightmare.

‘Our Lady guest,’ he asked tentatively, ‘is she well?’ The servant glanced at him as he straightened the furs. He was a good man, had served Renly and was kind and helpful as Gendry navigated the deep waters of Lordship. ‘She has not yet risen my lord. Do you wish to see her before you depart?’ The look in the older man’s eyes was vaguely knowing, and vaguely cautious. Gendry studied him a moment before replying. ‘No, thankyou. There is much to do today.’

As his servant helped him dress, Gendry had no choice but to think on the day ahead, and as he lead his men out across the cold hard ground of the Storm Lands, horses bristling against the cold, warm breath steaming, he didn’t look back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Gendry leaves, Arya sees no sense in staying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jus a short one to revive this almost abandoned fic!

It had been a long and sleepless night. A night of pacing and turning words and thoughts over and over in her mind. She should never have gone to him. She was a stupid girl, letting herself be weak, that had been let go a long time since. Weakness. But Gendry, Arya couldn’t stop herself from thinking on him, how strong and warm his chest had been against her cheek, her hands. How he had smelt, the feel of his heart beat in her ear. It felt like home. Since thinking it last night in the dark, Arya still couldn’t find the answer to her question. When had she last been held? The room was bright around her and from her spot by the fire, Arya sipped the tea brought to her with breakfast.

 

Arya knew she was under orders to keep to her room. Knew she would be kept comfortable, awaiting the order of the Lord of the Castle. Arya wondered how long Gendry would keep her a secret, as she had asked, or rather told him as he led her to her current chamber on that first evening. ‘No one must know, no one must know I am, nor that I am here’ she had told him, before pulling roughly away into her rooms. It was too soon, she had been no one for so long, it was too soon to announce herself to Westeros at large. Arya needed to get back to Winterfell, to see for herself what awaited her there before allowing the lost Stark girl to re emerge. That had been the plan, before whispers of the red witch had reached her ears, back in a damp inn on the road. The list had been a long one, but it was getting shorter. The feel of blood on her hands had long become familiar, the feel of a fresh face falling over hers like water. Arya shook herself and moved back to the window. From here, she could see the Storm Lands, rolling away from the coast, they looked bright and clear but the trees were becoming barren. Winter was here. As she looked, horses moved out from down below. The sounds of their hooves echoed up to her chamber, the distant snorting and huffing as they galloped out across the hard ground, Baratheon banners snapping in the cold wind. Off he went, the Lord of the Castle. Arya knew where they were going, had heard from the maid, off to save another hold fast. He was a good and kind lord, just and merciful. That was what was said about him. It didn't make it any easier, watching him leave again. How many times would she have to say goodbye? Still, it hurt more than she expected it too, somewhere deep down, somewhere almost forgotten. Arya shook her head and moved to the bed. She had lingered long enough. That bastard bull, that infuriating lord. How could he understand what he had taken from her? What she had offered him all that time ago? Needle was honed to a point, men’s garments had been delivered on her request, and, she supposed, Gendry’s approval, and there was nothing left to wait for. Somewhere in the bowels of the castle, Melisandre waited, but Arya could not, would not kill someone under Gendry’s protection, no matter how much her rage burned to. The time had come to return to Winterfell.

 

The day was clear and out in the forest, a whole world awaited. Arya slowly dressed and gripped needle until her knuckles turned white. That stupid boy. Arya closed her eyes, breathed in the smell of the rushes, the crackling fire, Gendry’s home. Strength. You don’t need him. Arya opened her eyes and sheathed the blade, and, with one last glance at the golden stag dancing on the tapestry, made her way to the door, listening, quiet. Outside, a guard was posted, but he was not a bad man. From her pack, Arya took a small phial of herbs, the glass glinting in the sunlight.  A gift from Braavos, they would render anyone unconscious. Beyond the door was quiet, the guard would be bored, waiting for the appearance of the pretty maid. Arya’s soft knock would be enough to rouse his curiosity. The wood was smooth against her knuckles. As he fell, sliding the rushes around his feet, Arya eased his head down, there was no need to hurt him. Closing the door behind him gently and with a light click of the key in the lock, she slipped silently down the corridor. It was child’s play to pass the other guards, to find her way to the stables, to calm a nervous mare and on her strong back, make her way out into the early afternoon light. The wind was picking up again, stinging against her face, ruffling the fur on her cloak. The smell of the forest called her, the sea receding at her back. Darkness would fall early today. Winter was here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry finds Arya gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's another while I'm on a role. Thought there was angst before? All the angst + more angst.

The battle did not take long, A quick, noisy, brutish clash of horns and the majority of the rogues submitted to their lord. They had certainly been exaggerating their strength, hiding behind those walls, not enough to keep them, but that didn’t make the chaos they’d caused the poor villages any less real. Gendry wiped the blood from his hands, surveying the men in front of him kneeling in the courtyard of the small keep. The battle had been short, but bloody. It was sticky between his fingers, drying to a dark smudge on his hammer. No matter how many fights he won, it didn’t get any easier. This was not the life he dreamt of, the smell of fear, blood, piss and shit filling his nostrils as bodies were unceremoniously piled up on carts, those living, kneeling in the mud. His lordly duty, the fucking weight around his neck, he did this for Westeros, he did this to keep them safe, they could not be divided when the white walkers came. The white sky was clear and clean, contrasting harshly with the mess in front of him. How long had he been gone? Hours at least, it would be hours more yet, to organise everything, install a garrison, deal with the survivors, the wounded, ensure the villagers were safe and provided for. Gendry breathed deeply, wishing for fresher air. He should have seen her this morning, breathed her in, pleaded with her, knelt at her feet and begged forgiveness, done everything to keep her, to bring her back from the darkness she seemed so engulfed in. Instead he was here, amongst the dead and bloody, acting the lord. He needed to pull himself together, he had people to help, a land to save, a future to prepare for. This was what his life was now, his duty. It didn’t matter if he wanted it or not. Didn’t matter that all he could think about was behind him, waiting in the dark room of his keep, honing that blade to a point.

 

Dark came quickly over the storm lands, bringing with it a fresh crisp of frost. The castle was stable for now, the rogues had sworn fealty and been put to work under the watchful eye of the new garrison. Villagers had been welcomed and the area was pulling together to ready the keep for the winter, safe behind the strong walls. The day had been long, exhausting, full of barked orders, decisions and biting air. Now night was falling, bringing with it a blanket of calm, the stars whispering to him of home, of warm beds and soft hands. The ride would be a long one, a few hours hard through the frost. They had prepared a room for him here, he knew, but to spend the night away from her again, after so many nights apart, even if walls separated them, was too unbearable. His body and mind aching, Gendry mounted a fresh horse, and with just a few men, began the ride back to the castle on the sea, the seat of his family, where he knew, Arya waited.

 

Dawn was nearly breaking when Storms End came into view, the sound of the sea echoing across the flat land. Gendry could see the lights flickering at the gates, the guards moving around, torches on the ramparts, a flurry of activity for this time of night. Something was amiss. Whispering to his horse, urging it on for this last surge of speed. Something was wrong and despite everything he should care about, everything delicately balancing in Westeros, everything that could have happened, one thought drummed through his head with the beating of hooves. Arya Arya Arya.

 

The guards were on him before he had dismounted, barely through the gates. The castle was alive with men, moving, searching, talking. ‘My Lord!’ A man approached him, torch held high. He was a good man. a fourth son from a much lesser house, had fought at Gendry’s side several times. Gendry knew he was steady, calm, but now, his voice was rattled. ‘What is it?’ Gendry hurriedly dismounted and grasped the man’s arm, dreading the answer, desperate for it. ‘Your lady guest my lord, she has gone, disappeared like a spirit, swapped her place with the guard on her door. No one saw her my lord, no one can find a trace.’ His eyes were wide, scared at how this small woman had slipped away in broad daylight, passed them all. Gendry squeezed the man’s arm and let his hand drop with the weight that fell to his knees. The light of the torch danced shadows across their faces, the smoke burning his eyes. At least the smell of death was gone. Along with her. She was gone. Again. ‘Was anyone hurt?’ This would be the worst thing, worse than her going, worse than her attempted assassination, would she have hurt his men, knowing they were his? The man shook his head, ‘no my lord, the guard on her door woke up in her chambers, but no harm was done to him. She just vanished. We’ve got men searching the castle, the grounds, but there’s nothing my lord.’ Gendry breathed deeply, relief and devastation sweeping over him ‘call off the search, tell the men to get back to their normal duties, to bed, if there’s still any hours left of the night. We won’t find her, not if she doesn’t want us to.’ The man nodded curtly at him, eyes searching for more explanation before turning and hurrying off to carry out his orders, leaving Gendry in the shadows again. Stupid bull. Had he really thought she would stay?

 

There was a deep ache inside him, the adrenalin of the fight, the ride, the hope of seeing her draining away, leaving in it’s place an emptiness, an exhaustion to his bones. As Gendry made his way through the stone corridors, instead of his own chambers, he found himself heading to hers, the now empty corridor looming in front of him. The door opened easily, no longer locked, swinging into the vacant room. Now the fire was cold, the torches left dark. Gendry stood in the silence, eyes closed, breathing in the cold air. Just yesterday, she had stood here, just yesterday she had breathed this air. Slowly, he unbuckled the hammer from his back, let it fall to the rushes beneath him. Stepped slowly over to the bed, the furs were perfectly in place, made by the maid in the morning. Gently, he reached out, it was so soft against his rough hands, still dark with sweat and blood. Just yesterday, she had lain here, body against these sheets.

 

It was like a pull that had him falling into the softness, the deep ache inside him sinking into the cold bed, head against the pillow, hands gripping the fur desperately as he breathed her in. The faint smell of forest, snow, the flowers from her bath lingering, filling him up, sending him away into a slumber full of wolves.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya tries to run away from her feelings, and the journey takes her somewhere unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, Arya is definitely not going back to Storm's End. It is not going to be an easy ride for these two and they are going to spend a little time apart while things get figured out.
> 
> In terms of the world at large, for the sake of the story, the night king and co are waiting very nicely for the characters to finish up their stories and have not yet crossed the wall, nor do they have a dragon. 
> 
> Gendry and Jon are mates and did the expedition over the wall together, it was after this that Gendry was legitimized and made lord of Storm's End by Dany. 
> 
> Arya took longer faffing about which is why she still hasn't made it to Winterfell and no one but Gendry know she's alive.
> 
> Jon and Dany are now allied and have made their pact with Cersei after showing her the wight but Arya doesn't yet know that he has bent the knee to her, nor do the other Northern lords, as in the show. 
> 
> Gendry still doesn't know what Arya is truly capable of.
> 
> Trying to make my story squeeze into canon!

The road to Winterfell was a long one but the mare she had chosen for the first leg was strong and Arya rode her hard, breathing deeply, the crisp cold air burning down into her lungs. Freedom whispered against her skin, through her hair, bound tightly now, the plait tucked into her furs. Those she passed barely gave her a second glance and as the smell of shipbreaker bay faded, it was replaced with the forest, the frost, purpose. Arya frowned into the wind. Strength. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need him. Arya repeated this to herself, as every step took her away from that man, those gentle hands. She didn’t need him. Arya pushed the horse harder, the world turning to a blur around her as she tried to outrun the lies she was telling herself. She didn’t need him.

 

It was a few days and stolen horses later when the Kings Wood began to thin out and Arya arrived at an inn. It was small, looked like it had been through hard times, one side scorched by a fire that looked as if it had been beaten back a while since. Along the road, a fresh crop of corpses piled unceremoniously had gifted her anonymity once again. The face she wore was that of a peasant woman, older than herself but still young, plain, mousy hair, practically invisible.

 

The mare shifted beneath her, anxious for rest, water, food, just like it’s rider. They were close to King’s Landing here, the road home would take her through it, but Arya planned to skirt around, no desire to step foot into that cess pit. She had to get home. The inn looked quiet in the fading light, a plume of smoke winding up from the kitchen window, bringing with it the smell of baking bread. Slowly, calm beneath her disguise, Arya hitched her horse near the trough of water and made her way inside, affecting the hesitance of a woman travelling alone in these difficult times.

 

Inside was smoky and warm, straw on the floor clean enough and a few tables occupied by men who looked tired as her. Arya made herself small, meek as she approached the barkeep, a crotchety looking old man who eyed her up and down. Clearly finding her lacking he barked rudely at her in a rough voice, ‘Got money?’ Arya met his eyes, he was wrinkled, weathered, thin, been through the mill. It was hard to find friendly faces now, everyone was an enemy, who knew what evil had wondered into his inn in the past. Quietly, the girl pulled a hand of coins from her layers, holding them out to him, keeping eye contact. After a few moments of deliberation, he nodded firmly, grasping at the coins as he spoke ‘you’ll be wanting a meal and a room then? And you rode in on a horse, she’ll want caring for. Yes?’ Arya nodded at him and ventured a small smile before moving towards the table he gestured at. Night had fallen now and the smoky light of the fire and various candles left the small room in a half light and the men at the table nearest her a hazy blur. The weight of her almost none stop journey suddenly seemed to weigh on her as she sat there, nowhere, no one.  So far from family, real or wished for.

 

It was in this exhausted blur of heavy limbs, heavy heart, hollow stomach that she heard it, whispers. The table behind her, low voices murmuring of the Queen, the ruthless Cersei and her latest exploits. Without turning, Arya listened more intently, quietly thanking the girl who brought her meal. As she sipped the watery ale, her practised ears picked up their thread of conversation. The wood of the table was rough against her fingers, the smoke stinging her eyes, the voices muttering and quick and Arya learned of the Sand Snakes’ plight. ‘Dragged through the streets they were, taken before her, they said, by that Greyjoy fucker.’ The men shook their heads and sipped their drinks. ‘They’re down in the dungeons now, I heard she tortured them. Wouldn’t surprise me, that bitch is worse than the Mad fucking King.’ At this, the men clinked their cups together. Arya raised her eyebrows at this, clearly, Cersei was not popular in the Crownlands. As their words moved onto less interesting topics, Arya finished her simple meal. Cersei. The name so familiar on her tongue from nights whispering it to the dark, the taste of it bitter in her mouth. Cersei. Still alive, still squatting in the festering pit of King’s Landing. Still causing damage. The Sand snakes. Arya knew little of them, didn’t need to. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

 

In the dark of her room, straw itchy at her back, wind loud at the walls, Arya dreamed of him. The Baratheon banner slipped through he fingers as he rode away from her again, always away from her, just like everyone else. The peasant woman’s eyes flicked open. The room was suddenly suffocating, the quiet inn deafening. The list burned like fire in her mouth. It was waiting. Cersei was waiting. Gendry may have robbed her of one but this one was close, so close. Could she really go home with it haunting her? With Gendry’s voice in her ear? Petty games indeed. Winterfell could wait. The time had come for that blonde bitch, and, if rumour was true, her pet monster. In the dark, the peasant girl smiled and rose, making her way out into the frost, taking a more rested horse and slipping away into the trees once more. King’s Landing was just a few hours ride.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya is back in Kings Landing, this time as the hunter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a super teeny weeny chapter just to let you know i'm not gone, and i'm still doing this story that is mapped out until the end!

The royal seat of the Seven Kingdoms was as steaming and rotten as Arya remembered. Crowded streets, scared and starving people, it seemed supplies were running low, and winter had barely touched them. At least the cold kept the stink down, and where Arya watched, in the twisting turns of Flea Bottom, the residents squirmed and shivered, scratching a life from what scraps fell from the red keep, squatting like a toad at the top of this cursed place. 

No one had given her a second glance and Arya slipped into the city as easily as she had left, right through the gates. This time though, she wasn’t being hunted, she was stalking her prey. It couldn’t be rushed, Arya would have to take her time. 

Down in the ramshackle inns, in the shops, hovels and homes that made up these streets, Arya waited and watched, a beggar in the dirt, listening to the words of passers by. People talked, gossiped, whispered. Words of the Queen, the war, the nobility, filtered down until they were raw and bitter and Arya gleaned where she would find some unusually well paid orphans, a gaggle of deviants who could usually be found in a particular area and may have a connection to the crown. It was a promising enough lead for Arya to rouse herself from her affected stupor of the gutter and amble, slowly and inconspicuously down into the dark of an empty doorway. 

When she emerged, it was not a peasant woman that blinked into the grey light, but a child, dirty and ragged. It had been a fruitful crop of corpses on the road indeed, and whoever wore this face before her, Arya was thankful for his help.

The children were suspicious of her at first, the damp squalor they had made their home was surprising considering how well fed they seemed to be. Someone was paying them, and paying them well for peasant orphan standards. A quick tongue, a daring attitude and an easy nature soon had her as one of the team, thieving and pickpocketing, running, hiding and laughing but always alluding to something more, some secret job. In just a few short days, they had welcomed her, wholeheartedly and Arya found herself oddly content to play the part. A scruffy orphan, relying on friends, it was familiar, like a part of herself she had long lost, but as her bare feet splashed through grey puddles, quick on the heels of her team, Arya knew it could never be the same, she could never go back to those simpler times, not without him, steady behind her. 

In the darkness, after a full day, they lay huddled together, breath steaming in the cold warehouse. They wouldn’t be able to keep warm when full winter set in. The child closest to her was small and clever, a girl with dirty dark hair and deep dark eyes, fierce in a way that stung Arya deep inside. She was all alone in this world, and had welcomed Arya into the group with open arms, showing her the good places to get scraps, the market sellers who were least observant, the guards who would take your hand if you were caught and those who could be charmed. Arya was grateful, really, and it was this night, in the darkness, that the girl finally revealed what the others were so secretive about, the source of their meagre riches. Her voice was quiet, whispered into the dark and Arya could feel her breath against her face as they spoke, close against the cold. It was the whispered secrets of children, co-conspirators, of times before Sansa had grown too much to love her. These secrets were not childish though, and Arya soon learned of the barbaric hand of the queen, the flighty title of ‘little birds’ the children wore so proudly and the secrets they brought him, down in the bowels of the red keep. Worst of all, the death of Pycelle. Arya kept her face in awe, swallowing the anger that had bile rising up her throat as the girl whispered of the knives, going in and out. How his flesh had hung loose, how they had climbed over him, feet and hands slick with dark blood while Qyburn smiled from the shadows. Enough was enough, it was time to meet the nobility.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya goes after Qyburn and makes some new allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to do more new paragraphs when there's speech. Hope it makes it easier to read.

Qyburn was a cruel smile in the shadows, fingers full of treats in payment for whispered words, comings and goings, rumours and tales of all the sickly cities residents, high and low. All was worth something to the twisted hand of the Queen. Arya watched with dark eyes, quiet among the others in the dark rooms beneath the keep where the master of whispers kept counsel with his little birds. Water dripped down stones and the air was chill down here, dark and musty. It smelt like blood and dirt, rot and death. Arya left with her gaggle of friends, grubby and glowing, silver in their pockets and sugar in their bellies. It wouldn’t keep out the cold.

It went this was for a week, slipping in and out of the dank and shivering chambers and Arya learned what information was most valuable to the crown, understood his questions in a way the other urchins never could. It took but a few visits, before Qyburn listened to Arya, noticed her quick eye and ready tongue, she noticed things the others couldn’t and he didn’t try to hide the gleam in his eye, he had caught a juicy bird indeed, one who could gather far more information than the others. Arya shared her coin easily with the other children. 

It didn’t take long at all to learn the comings and goings of the keep, to hear the rumours of the court, of who was loyal to the Queen and whose loyalty was faltering as dragon fire licked the land. Soon, deft fingers and light feet slipped inside the castle more often, listening and learning, taking papers and hoarding news. The dawn was particularly weak on one such morning, when Arya read a note in the dimly lit chambers below the keep as her peers whispered their reports to the hand. Poison, the long farewell. Arya knew it well. But it was not easy to obtain here in Kings Landing. The queen had needed it, Qyburn had taken overly long to find it, promising it to his master in just a few short days, and as Arya slipped into the pale day, she knew who the intended victim was. My enemy’s enemy is my friend. 

It was almost painfully easy to take him, the fallen maester who served the queen so readily. His eyes were eager when she approached him in the dark, ready to hear the succulent news she had promised him, so good she didn’t wish to tell the others, they had to meet alone. She was always full of good information, why should he doubt her? 

Arya said nothing as her blade slipped into his old flesh, as easy as butter, said nothing as she watched the light die in his eyes, still faintly showing surprise. His cloak was itchy against her skin, but his face fell over hers just as easily as any other, wrinkled and worn. 

It came to her quickly, the location and the condition of two prisoners, down in the bowels of the castle where the twisted turns and red brick were as familiar as the cats whose tails whipped around corners, pursued by grasping fingers. Down, down, down, in the dark of the night, face of the enemy, Arya wrapped her cloak tightly about her, avoiding the circles of light left by the burning torches. She did not wish to see her own wrinkled hands any more than she must. The guards were easy to dismiss, and as the sound of their clanking armour disappeared down the stone corridor, Arya breathed in deeply. The air was smoky and hazy, tinged with straw and human waste, the smell of despair. It could already be too late, the poison had been known to take it’s victims in mere hours, if her information was correct, it had been administered over a day ago. 

The Sand Snakes were still regal in their pit. Strong arms held slightly aloft as they sat in the dirtied straw, brocaded garb torn and muddy. Arya could still hear the strength, burning in breaths, they had not given into despair yet, and as she rounded the corner and turned the lock in the key, it was two pairs of fierce eyes that turned to her, she was not yet too late. 

‘Peace, friends’ Arya raised her aged hands in front of her as the sand snakes raised up to their feet, Ellaria spitting quickly down into the straw, tears mixed with anger on her cheeks. 

‘We are not your friends, you twisted rat.’ Ellaria’s words were harsh and filled with such venom, Arya was impressed, she had always been interested in these warrior women from the distant Dorne. 

As Ellaria fumed, Arya turned Qyburn’s eyes instead on Tyene, who looked more scared than angry, confused as her eyes flicked to her mother and back to her enemy. 

‘You have not yet succumbed to the poison then? You must be strong.’ Arya’s words were quiet as she pulled out a small vial from the depths of the itchy maester’s cloak. 

The smell of waste was strong, the walls turning black from the flickering torch that cast shadows over the occupants of the cell. Slowly, as if to a spooked animal, Arya raised her hand towards Tyene, proffering the vial.

‘It is the antidote. Take it quickly, we cannot be certain how much time there is.’ Arya spoke calmly but with an edge of urgency, the poison was a slippery enemy that could strike at any moment. 

Tyene’s eyes flicked again to her mother, questioning and scared, a flicker of hope behind those dark eyes. Ellaria’s eyes chased her daughter’s before turning once again on her captor.

‘Why are you doing this? Is it some trick?’ That flicker of hope behind her eyes matched her daughters, some twist of fate come to aid them here in the depths of their enemies nest.

Arya shook her head, sensing their hope. ‘No, no trick. Take it.’ 

Tyene’s hands were shaking as she grasped the small vial, the glass winking in the torch light. The chains rattled as she raised it to her lips, eyes on her mother. The bottle was emptied quickly. The moment was a tense one, stretching as the mother and daughter stared into each other, willing for no trickery. 

Arya broke the silence with a nod, ‘I will send for you soon. Just know, the North is your friend.’ 

Wild eyes followed her as Arya turned and locked the gate again, leaving them to their new hope in the squalor of their cell. They would not be there for long.


End file.
